


As a Man Thinks in His Heart

by Melanie_Athene



Series: To Err Is Human [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Fix-It, Humor, M/M, Post Season 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-30
Updated: 2011-09-30
Packaged: 2017-10-24 04:57:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/259255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melanie_Athene/pseuds/Melanie_Athene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bobby requests help with a new case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As a Man Thinks in His Heart

Contrary to popular belief, 'denial' was not Dean Winchester's middle name... though, perhaps it should have been. It was his safety mechanism for coping with all the shit life threw at him – which was usually a big, hot steaming pile of the stuff. If it didn't happen, if it didn't matter, it couldn't hurt you. The greater the potential for hurt, the greater the need for denial. It was a credo that had served Dean well down through the years. And so, by the time the sun touched on the horizon, ending a restless night and signalling the start of another day, inevitably Dean had convinced himself that Castiel's kiss was nothing more than a harmless joke. After all, Sam's explanation of what happened in a photo booth had been very explicit: _You goof around. It's not meant to be serious, like a normal photo. It's meant to be fun – and funny._

Unpractised in the ways of humour as he was, Castiel had inadvertently stumbled upon the ultimate prank to play on Dean: he had made him believe the kiss was real. Worse, he had made him _want_ to believe. And that shook the foundations of everything Dean knew to be true about himself. He didn't like men, damn it! Cock held not the slightest appeal for him – unless, of course, it was his own buried in a willing pussy or expertly manipulated by his own hand. He liked big boobs and long legs up to _here_ , not flat, hairy chests and faces sandpapery rough with stubble. Sure, Cas had gorgeous eyes, a hot little bod, and a mouth just made for kissing... but that didn't necessarily mean he _should_ kiss the guy.

Why, then, did he still want to kiss him?

Couldn't he take a joke?

His whole goddamned life was one bad joke after another.

Dean sighed and swung his feet over the edge of the bed. Clicking on the light, he picked up the little strip of pictures and gave it an intense, lingering stare.

“You got me, Cas,” he whispered, lightly touching a finger to the smile curving Castiel's lips in the final frame. “You got me good.”

 

~*~

 

By the time the others wandered into the kitchen, drawn by the heavenly scent of coffee wafting through the house, the second strip of photos was safely back in its place on the kitchen table next to the first, and Dean was far across the room from them both, busily stirring batter.

“Pancakes?” Sam said hopefully. “What's the occasion, Dean?”

“I'm hungry,” Dean replied, grinning at his brother and trying his best to ignore the weight of Castiel's questioning eyes.

“When aren't you hungry?” Sam teased, grabbing a couple of frying pans and heading for the stove to get the burners heating.

Bobby cast a thoughtful gaze on the photos and began to set the table. As he made a final trip, loaded with syrup and cutlery, he noted that the second strip of pictures had once again mysteriously disappeared. Unerringly, his glance slid to Castiel. The ex-angel's attention seemed to be focused on pouring out four mugs of coffee but, every now and then, his hand reached up to surreptitiously touch the breast pocket of his new flannel shirt, as if to reassure himself that something was still there. A light flush touched his cheeks as his head lifted and he met Bobby's eye.

“Don't forget the milk and sugar,” Bobby said.

“I'll get them,” Dean volunteered.

Castiel tried hard to hide his hurt dismay at the circuitous path Dean made around him, careful not to let so much as their sleeves brush. Quietly, he carried the coffee over to the table and the four men sat down to eat, Dean settling himself in Sam's usual place at Bobby's side.

If Dean noticed the photos' absence or Castiel's increasing distress, he didn't say a word. Not that he could have if he'd tried. He was far too busy trying to swallow the mound of pancakes he had shovelled in his mouth.

“I've been thinking,” Bobby said, sipping his second cup of coffee. “Halloween is just around the corner.”

“Our busy season,” Dean quipped.

“Yeah,” Bobby snorted. “Ghoulies and ghosties galore... Which is why I was wondering if you boys would like to stick around awhile. Help me keep an eye on things. If you don't have other plans...”

“We were going to head out Chicago way,” Sam said. “We have a lead on a shapeshifter.”

“That can wait,” Dean said, suddenly envisioning shared beds in small motel rooms and shying away from the intimacy that implied. Bobby's invitation was the perfect solution.

“Of course it can,” Sam said quickly, thinking of all they owed the old man, and how seldom he gave in to his loneliness and asked them to stay. “Count us in, Bobby. Was there something specific you had in mind?”

“There's a small but nasty coven that's been getting a lot of press lately,” Bobby replied. “The usual: ritualistic sacrifice of small animals, inverted crucifixes, cursed objects, and a hell of a lot of bad luck happening to anyone who crosses them. The activity seems to be centred around the O'Gorman Catholic High School.” He turned a thoughtful gaze on Castiel. “How's your French?” he asked. “I know your Latin is flawless.”

“Mon français est également impeccable.”

“I thought you might say that.”

“What do you have in mind, Bobby?” Dean said, a sick suspicion growing in his breast.

“I'm friends with the school's chaplain, Father Desmond. He doesn't like what's happening and so he's offered us an in. They have urgent need of a substitute teacher – French and Latin with a little theology thrown in for good measure. I told him I might have just the man for the job.”

“Cas,” Dean said flatly.

“That's Father Novak to you.” Bobby grinned. “Father Desmond has a spare room Cas can use. The house is just across from the school, so he can sneak over and check things out whenever he likes.”

“No.” Dean shook his head emphatically. “He's not ready to fly solo.”

“I thought you'd say that, too. That's why I lined up custodial jobs for you and Sam.”

“You were pretty sure we were going to say yes, weren't you?”

“You start tomorrow at 8:00 am. We'll take Cas to Father Desmond later this morning. There's a lot he has to learn to play his role.”

 

~*~

 

It didn't take long for Castiel to pack. Father Desmond would supply the necessary wardrobe for the assignment: a cassock for formal occasions, a black suit and white collar for daily wear. All he really needed to bring with him was a few toiletries: toothbrush and comb, razor and... he hesitated briefly, his hand hovering above Dean's shaving cream, shower gel and shampoo before he collected all three and stuffed them in his duffle. As an afterthought, he stole Dean's deodorant and toothpaste too before exiting the bathroom and heading back downstairs. Underwear, socks, a pair of jeans and a couple of T-shirts soon concealed the evidence of his petty theft.

Castiel zipped up the bag and gave Bobby's living room a sombre glance. He would miss this place. It had become a home of sorts. As for the people he was leaving behind... His eyes dropped to the photo strip safely tucked in his breast pocket. Carefully, he drew it out and stared at it until his eyes ached from the effort of blinking back tears. “Dean...” he whispered, touching a finger to the glossy paper, wishing with all his heart that he could relive yesterday and undo that kiss. One slip of his control, one tiny moment of glorious self-indulgence and he had destroyed their easy camaraderie. Dean was running scared... and there wasn't a thing he could do about it. No apology, no amount of wishing it weren't so, was going to make this go away.

“Are you ready, Cas?”

Castiel swiftly tucked the photos back in his pocket and turned to face the speaker.

“Yes, Sam,” he said.

Sam leaned against the doorframe, arms folded across his chest, projecting an air of confidence Castiel only wished that he could feel. His stomach fluttered disconcertingly. This was it. He was actually striking out on his own. A human amongst humans – amongst strangers! – with only his wits to protect and guide him.

Sam smiled. “Relax,” he said. “Everything is going to be okay. Dean and I will be close by. We'll gank the witches and you'll be back here with us again before you know it.”

Castiel nodded and picked up his bag, heading for the kitchen.

“So...” Sam said nonchalantly, ambling along beside him. “You, um, kinda like my brother, huh?”

“I have never made a secret of that fact.”

“No... I guess you haven't.”

“I think the only one who doesn't know is Dean,” Castiel said softly.

“Oh, I think he knows. I'm pretty sure the liking goes both ways.”

“Perhaps... but that is something he will never readily admit.”

The porch door opened just then, interrupting their conversation. Dean stepped inside and Castiel silently walked past him, heading for the Impala. Dean's eyes followed his progress until the closing door hid him from view.

 _You might be surprised,_ Sam thought. _I've never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you._

 

~*~

 

Father Desmond was a kind and gentle man in his late sixties: short, over-weight and balding. He welcomed Castiel into his home, showed him to his room and made it clear that he was not to hide himself away in the small chamber. “At the very least, ” he said, “I expect you to join me for meals whenever your duties permit. As you can imagine, I don't often have the chance to entertain. You are a very welcome guest, my son – and not just for what you can do to help rid us of our problem. Milly is an excellent companion...” He bent to fondly pet a purring tabby. “But I'm afraid her conversation leaves much to be desired.”

Castiel eyed the cat uncertainly, as if expecting her to speak.

“Please, sit down.” The priest waved Castiel to a comfortable armchair and chose a matching one for himself.

“Thank you, Father.”

Milly sauntered over to Castiel and rubbed her head against his leg. And then, much to his surprise, she leapt up to his lap and settled down, still purring loudly. Castiel stroked her with a hesitant hand, fascinated by the unexpected softness of her fur and the soothing warmth of her compact little body. Milly's purrs reached new heights of ecstasy as Castiel grew more comfortable with this alien creature and his touch grew more sure.

“You've made a friend already,” Father Desmond chuckled. “Milly is an astute judge of character. I've never seen her take to anyone so quickly. You must have a way with animals.”

Castiel wisely refrained from mentioning that this was his first close encounter.

“Castiel...” the priest continued. “That's an unusual name. The angel of Thursday, new changes, travel...”

“I come from a very religious, scholarly family.”

“Which no doubt explains your solid knowledge of Latin and theology. Robert was quite generous in his praises. He obviously thinks very highly of you.”

Castiel raised an eyebrow at this unexpected news. Robert? Bobby Singer? He had won his respect? So intrigued was he by this notion that he almost failed to hear Father Desmond's next question.

“Have you taught before, Castiel?”

“No. I was... a soldier.”

“No matter. I have a curriculum outlined. Feel free to improvise as you gain confidence. You shouldn't have any problems. Our students are all eager to learn, very dedicated to making good grades and getting into the best universities.”

“And yet someone is dabbling in the black arts.”

“There is a serpent in the garden,” Father Desmond said with a sigh. “It is most distressing to think of innocent children placing their immortal souls in danger. The soul is such a precious thing...”

Castiel sighed, shivering at the memory of millions of dark souls inhabiting his body, corrupting him with their power, tempting him with their siren songs and gilded lies. He contrasted this distasteful image with the brilliant light that shone from Dean's pure soul. “Yes, it certainly is,” he replied belatedly. “It is a pearl beyond price...”

_And I would give all that I own to call it mine._

 

~*~

 

Dean tossed and turned, trying to find a comfortable position, but it was no use. Sleep eluded him. The empty half of his bed had never seemed so wide. Morning had never seemed so far away.

Cursing under his breath, Dean slammed his feet to the floor and sat on the edge of his bed: head cradled in his hands, elbows planted on his knees, shoulders bent beneath the weight of the endless night. Sighing, he lifted his head and stared at the curtains fluttering in the breeze that stole in his open window. Moonlight spilled across the floor in pale imitation of a wash of Grace. But there was no forgiveness here. Not for him.

He didn't deserve it anyway.

 _I promised,_ Dean thought wearily. _I promised I'd stand by him, but I let him go without a word of goodbye._

Over and over the image of Castiel's wan face played in his mind: the quiet resignation... the abandoned puppy look he tried to hide as the Impala drove away...

_No one asked him if this was something he was ready to do. We just used him, the way we always have. And he let us..._

Damn. Damn. Damn.

Dean fled his bedroom and made his way downstairs. It wasn't nearly as easy to flee from his thoughts. They kept him company as he made his way to the kitchen. They mocked him as he downed one bottle of beer, and then a second, and then a third. Desperate to escape, he pulled a bottle of whiskey from its hiding place on one of Bobby's overflowing bookcases and poured himself a generous glass. He didn't bother to count how many more of those he had.

Somehow, hours later, he managed to stumble over to the empty sofa and unfold the blanket Castiel had been using. Curled up underneath it, breathing in the lingering scent of the absent man, pressing himself against the sofa's back, he could almost believe that Castiel was right there behind him. It wasn't perfect, but in his drunken stupor it was good enough.

Dean slept... and did not dream.

 

~*~

 

The short walk down the hallway from the office he shared with Father Desmond to his assigned classroom seemed endless. Whispers followed him, eyes stared. No actual fingers pointed but, nonetheless, Castiel could feel their ghostly presence crawling on his skin. He ignored the eerie feeling. Head up, eyes forward, measured steps carried him towards his destination. The numbers on the doors crawled by: 207... 208...

The bell signalling the start of first period sounded. Wonderful. He was going to be late for his own class.

...213.. 214...

The hallway miraculously cleared as students hurriedly slipped through doors and settled in their chairs. Only Castiel remained, his footsteps echoing in the sudden silence.

...218... 219... Finally! There it was!

Just then, an exceptionally tall – and very familiar – janitor came into view, pushing a broom down the hall towards him.

Castiel nodded as Sam gave him a quick thumbs up gesture. And then he drew in a deep breath, stepped into Room 220 and closed the door behind him.

More eyes. A sea of blues and browns and greys and greens.

“Good morning,” Castiel said, his voice deeper than normal. He cleared his throat in hopes of expelling some of his nervousness.

Only a few tentative voices replied.

 _Introduce yourself,_ Father Desmond's advice repeated in his mind. _Write everything down so they don't keep asking you to repeat yourself._

“I'm Father Novak,” Castiel said, picking up a dry marker and turning to write his name on the whiteboard.

 _Osculum mihi asinum_ was already scrawled there in large, sprawling letters.

A titter rippled through the class.

Castiel squared his shoulders and reached out to slash a line through _mihi_ and _asinum. Culus meus,_ he wrote then in a fine, bold hand. Turning back to face the class, he tilted his head questioningly. “I presume that's what you were trying to say?” he said. “Osculum culus meus. Kiss my ass. As in buttocks. Unless one of you happens to have a donkey fetish?”

The class erupted into laughter and turned as one to face a very red-faced boy sitting in the back row.

Castiel set his briefcase on his desk and clicked it open. “Please open your textbooks to page forty-two...” he said.

 

~*~

 

“How's he doing?” Dean murmured, coming up behind his brother and giving him a sharp poke in the ribs with his elbow. “Are they eating him alive?”

“Surprisingly, no.” Sam stepped aside to let Dean peek in the tiny window. “In fact, I'd say he has them eating out of his hand.”

“Huh,” Dean huffed. “Go figure.” A touch of pride flickered in his breast as he stared at Castiel. One of the ex-angel's slender hands was gesturing gracefully, his voice rising and falling in sweet cadence as he read from some dreary text. The students' faces were alight with interest in the topic – at least, Dean assumed it was the lesson that fascinated them so. He didn't much like the way some of those dreamy-eyed looks were bent on Castiel. Reluctantly, he allowed Sam's hand to tug him further down the hall.

“Have you found anything yet?” Sam said.

“Hex bags and a scattering of rather nasty sigils,” Dean replied. “You?”

“The same. Sophisticated stuff for high school. Someone has access to some pretty arcane knowledge and supplies.”

Dean nodded. “It's going to be a bitch to trace it down.”

“I called Bobby. He's checking the supply and delivery angle, both local and through the internet. I doubt the witches are dumb enough to have their potions delivered to the school, but you never know.”

“Weirder things have happened,” Dean agreed, drifting back over to the little window and peering in the classroom just as Castiel's head happened to turn towards the door.

Castiel's eyes met Dean's and he froze in mid sentence, his gaze locked on the hunter's. Equally unable to tear his eyes away, Dean lost himself in the familiar stare...

By the time puzzled students thought to follow their dumbstruck teacher's haunted gaze and turned their attention to the door, the window was empty.

Sam propelled Dean down the hall ahead of him, satisfying himself with a firm grip on his brother's arm, when what he really wanted was to deliver a swift kick to his backside. “Weirder things, indeed,” he muttered. “So help me, Dean... Are you sure you didn't get some damiana on you when you were disposing of those hex bags?”

 _If only it were as simple as being under the influence of a love charm,_ Dean thought wistfully.

“Fuck off, Sam,” he said.


End file.
